


The Things We Lose, The Things We Search For, The Things We Remember (and the things we forget)

by natcat5



Series: Dark Month 2015 [8]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Memory Loss, Multi, kidnapped by fairies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 15:30:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4966372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natcat5/pseuds/natcat5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Looking for lost things can be a group effort. However, things get a bit harder when you've lost yourself as well.</p><p><i>Trust no one who offers help. Guard your names, for they have power and may be used against you.</i> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>The Fae Court ensnares all who enter. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things We Lose, The Things We Search For, The Things We Remember (and the things we forget)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm quite happy with this, actually.

It is a summer forest.

The air is warm and thick, alive and humming. The drone of insects, the echoing calls of birds, the dappling light and the whispering breeze. A myriad of sounds and sights, the rustling canopy of leaves a faithful background to steady the shifting harmonies.

A young woman walks alone through the endless trees, surrounded by enveloping walls of green and gold, sunlight and drifting leaves, gnarled branches and sturdy trunks twisted with age. A floor of crisscrossing roots, loam and grass in the areas between. Her feet are bare against the ground, dirt between her toes, smears of earth about her ankles.

There is something determined about her stride. She marches forward confidently, under branches over roots, through cobwebs and the thicker walls of leaf and bush. The purposefulness of her pace speaks of her reasons for being here. That she is moving through this forest for a particular goal, and she will not depart, or even search for an exit, until she’s found it.

But there is also something uncertain in her gait. She pauses at times, looks around hesitantly, hands hovering in the air. The day is warm, the sun is not moving in the sky, the trees are towering, and the forest is eternal. She may be here for a reason, but she is also lost.

Something flickers in the corner of her vision. A wavering shape devoid of colour, jarring and sharply contrasted against the backdrop of bright green gold brown blue. A blurry cloud of gray that peers out, formless and transient.

“I know what you’re looking for,” it whispers, voice cutting like a winter wind, cold and sudden. “I know why you’re here.”

The girl shivers, goosebumps along her arms. She purposefully does not turn to answer the voice, or even to look at it. Keeps her eyes away from that spot beside her; there is something dark and sunken where a face should be.

She was told, she remembers being told, that she was to trust no one upon entering the forest. That she was to accept no help, and no advice. No matter how lost she might be, anything here that offered aide only wished to draw her in deeper. She doesn’t remember who told her, but she remembers being told.

“Please,” the voice says, and she is unsettled by the familiarity of it. She can’t place it, can’t figure out why she might recall it, but feels certain that she knows it.

She begins to walk quicker.

In any case, she doesn’t feel as if she’s at the point where she can be tempted by offers of help, whether the voices are familiar or not. She has not been walking in the forest for that long, after all. She has only just begun to look. And she’s certain she’ll find what she’s searching for soon. Just a little further ahead. Just a little more time. Just a little deeper into the twisting wood and suffocating leaves.

The sun does not move in the sky. She walks on, and the trees stay the same. The rustling of foliage and the echo of the birds remain eerie and regular.

She’s startled then, when she hears a sudden burst of sound that breaks the rhythm. A harsh cacophony of noise, screeching, wings flapping, and the beating of branches.

It doesn’t fit. It’s a displaced racket in the picturesque forest. Almost as if pulled by a tether, by an unseeable string, she moves towards it, fighting past the crisscross of branches and roots that spring up to impede her way. The sound is something, like her, that does not belong here, and she is drawn to it instinctively.

The leaves drifting in the sunlight begin to be joined by spots of black, ragged feathers floating in the breeze. She tenses as they brush against her cheek, as they get stuck on the spikes on her hair, bringing with them an intense feeling of loss, of something she’s forgotten, and is still forgetting.

The feeling of unease is brushed aside abruptly as she comes to a particularly violent tangle of leaves and vines, with a squawking, wildly struggling bird stuck in the middle. The source of the noise. An element that does not fit the surreal summer forest. Black as night, eyes bright and piercing. Talons and beak fierce, a bird of war, a bird made to fight.

 _A raven,_ her mind supplies. A piece of information from that memory she can’t quite seem to reach. The half-recognition bothers her, moreso when the bird’s eyes turn on her, and focus. Lock her in place, challenge her as much as they greet her with a recognition that mirrors her own.

She refuses to break its gaze, holding it steady even as she digs into the pocket of her skirt for the switchblade she knows lies within it.

 _Where did I get the switchblade?_ The thought pops unbidden to her mind. It is followed by, _I know this gaze. This is familiar._ But her mind refuses to dwell on either, to recognize either. The past, memories, are elusive to her now, and slip away immediately.

The blade does not cut through the tangle of branches easily, and she has to saw, really struggle with it to get through the vine and leaf wrapped about the trapped bird. It watches her intently the entire time. She keeps its gaze for as long as she is able, locks her eyes with its any time she doesn’t need to lower them to ensure she doesn’t cut off her own fingers.

Finally, the bird is free. It springs forth from the tangle of branches in a spray of feathers and leaves, wings flapping powerfully. She watches as it rises in the air, hovers just beneath the canopy of treetops, before swooping down and landing beside her.

As a man.

The eyes are the same, light and piercing, but the rest of the bird’s form shifts into something tall and bipedal. Dressed in dark clothes, head shaved, and black feathers still littered sparingly about its skin.

 _I know him,_ she thinks, and then stiffens as his eyes lock with hers again. Still looking like a creature made for war, made to fight.

“Thanks,” he says, and it’s a sharp thing, a bitten off word. Is he wary of her? Or affected by the same disquiet that she is? There is something suspicious and searching in his gaze, like he is also being haunted by a familiarity that he can’t place.

“It’s no problem,” she responds flatly, aware of her own eyes narrowing.

A standoff silence blooms between them alarmingly quickly, and she feels vastly uncomfortable, suddenly painfully aware that there’s something she’s forgetting. The man across from her may be suffering something similar, his jaw tight, his beak-sharp lips pressing into an angry line.

But he doesn’t speak, and neither does she. As much as this man doesn’t feel like he’s a part of the forest, as much as he feels like he’s like her, the warnings against trusting anyone she meets here are still at the forefront of her mind. She should walk, continue on her search. She should go immediately- but she doesn’t want to be the one to look away first.

“I know what you’re both looking for.”

The silence is broken abruptly, and she jumps, turns around with the switchblade held defensively in front of her. The man turns as well, but it’s a sharper, more controlled movement. A practiced one, muscles tense and hands brandished like talons, like weapons.

There’s nothing behind them, nothing solid anyway, but she feels a familiar chill up her spine, hairs on her arm prickling, and sees something dark and familiar, shapeless but distinct, looking through the branches of a distant tree.

“I know what you’re both looking for,” the voice repeats, echoing and disembodied, “You’re not going to find it, not like this.”

The man tenses beside her, and she sees his lips curl in a sneer.

“Thanks for the input,” he snarls, sarcastic and stabbing, “If you could fuck off entirely, that would be great.”

The sensation of being watched increases dramatically, like whatever is behind the shapeless mass has intensified its gaze, and she feels herself take an unintentional step backwards. Afraid.

“We don’t need your help,” she says, her voice as steady as she can get it, “We can find it on our own.”

She backs away then, and turns, walks away and ignores the tension in her body, and the twisting in her stomach. The churning together of doubt and fear, like she’s made the wrong decision, and that same pervasive feeling of _forgetting._

After a moment, after she’s taken a few steps forward, she hears the crunch of leaves and twigs behind her. Feels the heavy weight of the man’s presence on her back. He is following her, or, just walking the same way she is. Maybe both. Maybe he doesn’t know himself.

She doesn’t turn until the chill has gone from her bones. Until she doesn’t feel the haunting presence of whatever the voice is. Only then does she stop walking. Only then does she face the man, feathered and looming, a bird of prey on human legs.

“ ‘We?’” he repeats, incredulous, speaking first with a raised, challenging eyebrow.

She refuses to be intimidated, even though she herself is unsure as to why she grouped them together as she did. Why she’s so certain that the voice was right, and that they’re both looking for the same thing. That they know each other, somehow.

“Don’t read too much into it,” she counters loftily, “I’m walking this way. If you’re walking this way too, that’s your business.”

The man looks darkly amused, a smirk like a slow opening wound curling upwards on his face. “That so? In that case, lead the way, maggot.”

She stiffens, then. That feeling of familiarity, of forgetting, threatens to overwhelm her, and she straightens her back against it. Forcing herself to stand tall, to remain upright, despite how uncertain she’s feeling.

“My name’s not maggot,” she snaps, “It’s-,”

Another half-forgotten memory rears its head. Another warning she can’t remember the source of. _Do not give out your true name. It may be used against you. If you must use one, use a false one._

“It’s, it’s Mirror,” she says, after a moment’s hesitation. “You call me Mirror, or nothing at all, got it?”

The eyebrow goes up again, and he stares. An immobilizing gaze, like a pin through a butterfly.

“Mirror,” he repeats after a long silence, “That’s fitting.”

She blinks, uncertain of his meaning. But it’s then that she realizes, that she notices, the way light reflects around her. The way the sun’s rays are unusual in how they’re falling on her skin. The same way in which the man’s body is adorned with feathers, bristling out of his skin, her legs and arms are decorated with reflective patches. Like little mirrors, or still pools of water, randomly spread.

 _Mirror,_ it’s familiar and right, but having it spelt so explicitly across her body like this feels unusual. Like something is _off,_ or distorted.

She casts the feeling aside, shrugging. She is a mirror, and so she looks like one. It makes a certain sort of sense. Like the way the man before her is a raven, and is covered with feathers, even when he walks as a man.

She does not ask his name. She’s too proud to. Instead she waits to see if he offers it, or if he’ll remain nameless as they walk together. He seems to read the meaning in her silence, giving her a bared-teeth grin. Dagger-like and vicious.

“Greywaren,” he says simply, and something in her relaxes. Yes, that sounds right. That fits. She recognizes it; it’s as familiar as his eyes and the sword-keen edge of his smile. It puts part of her at ease, and she feels comfortable enough to continue forward, to walk on with the man just behind her, a hulking presence over her shoulder.

The sun remains high in the sky as they move through the forest. Time moves sluggishly, the netted branches and ceiling of leaves remain the same, and the summer heat does not waver as Mirror and Greywaren continue on in their joint search. The reflective patches on Mirror’s legs spread, the sunlight bouncing back, the images of green and brown and gold returning and reverberating. Beside her, Greywaren transitions easily between bird and man. Walking over roots in some places, flying and weaving through branches at others.

He lands briefly in a particular set of twisting branches, a lighter brown then the rest of the forest. The leaves that sprout from them are irregular, not clustered near the ends, but scattered along the length of the branch itself. They are not green, but a pale shade of blue, oddly shaped and half-furled.

Mirror watches, brow creased slightly in confusion, as Greywaren hops along the branch. As he flits about them, head tilted, like he’s looking for something. She’s about to call to him, to ask what he’s doing, when he leans down and tugs at one of the leaves sharply, tearing it.

Immediately, the entire cluster of branches ripples. Mirror jumps back, alarmed, hand fumbling for the blade in her skirt pocket, and Greywaren takes to the air, circling a few times before landing on Mirror’s shoulder.

The discoloured branches separate from the tree they were attached to. The blue leaves unfurl at the same time as a figure begins to take shape, hands and limbs and a face where there was only bark. Bare feet touch the ground, roots tangled between toes, and a young man straightens in front of them, eyes blinking. Hair the same colour as the branches that twist outwards from his shoulders and back. Eyes the same shape and colour as the leaves spread across them, the same leaves that sprout from twigs twisting out of the skin on his arms and neck.

They stare at him. He stares back.

There is something solemn about him, caution in his eyes where there was war in Greywaren’s. But Mirror recognizes his gaze all the same. The same familiarity beats in her chest, the same feeling of forgetting.

But she can’t seem to find the words to address him, to ask. His eyes, hooded and tired, like he’s just woken up, are also unsettling and deep. Greywaren’s gaze was like staring down the point of a sword, but this man’s gaze is like staring into a bottomless well. Eyes made for keeping secrets.

Greywaren leaves her shoulder, dropping down on two legs at her side. The other man’s eyes slide towards him, and Mirror doesn’t think she’s imagining the light of recognition that flickers within them.

“You ripped one of my leaves,” he states, a peculiar tone to his voice, like he’s not quite sure whether or not he’s offended.

Greywaren stares at him for a few seconds, before lifting one his shoulders in a half shrug, not breaking his gaze.

“Oops,” he replies, insincere.

The other man’s brows furrow a little, and his mouth twists into something a little darker. Greywaren matches the expression with a belligerent flame to his eyes. Mirror feels like an argument is about to brew just for argument’s sake, with no basis behind it. She feels like this has happened before, and will certainly happen again. But she also feels, urgently so, that they don’t have time for this now.

“You’ve lost something too, haven’t you?” she asks abruptly, interrupting the staring contest and male posturing before it can proceed any further, “You’re looking for something, in this forest.”

His gaze transfers to her with a slow deliberateness, some of the heat going out of his eyes. He tilts his head slightly, a cautious movement, and looks at her closely. Careful observation is a staple of his, she can tell. Or, she knows from experience, from memories she can’t remember.

“Are you offering help?” he asks, no inflection in his tone. There’s no challenge to it, but the word choice is striking to her. After a moment, she understands: this man received the same warning she did, to accept no offer of help. This is a test.

“No,” she replies immediately, exchanging a quick glance with Greywaren, still looming at her shoulder, “Just company. We all seem to be going the same way.” And then, after a moment’s hesitation, “I’m Mirror. This is Greywaren.”

The raven stiffens a little, eyes narrowed, like he’s upset that she introduced him instead of letting him speak for herself. But Mirror feels like if she let these boys dance and posture at one another, they could be here for a while.

In front of them, the other man relaxes a little, something tense uncoiling within him. Some of the branches that were coiled tight down his arms loosen a little, new leaves springing forth between his fingers.

“Magician,” he says by way of introduction, one leafy hand pressed against his chest, “I’ll walk with you a little. Just until I’ve found what I’ve lost.”

Then his eyes flick back towards Greywaren, blue burning a little more intensely, as if waiting for him to challenge his presence. But the raven just scoffs, jerks his head away and begins walking, a silent agreement to continue their journey by the new terms.

Mirror rolls her eyes, and begins to follow him, pausing briefly to exchange an exasperated look with Magician, who shadows her quietly as they move forward.  

It is all a vastly familiar thing.

The summer does not fade, as they walk through the forest. The breeze is light, the trees tower and loom, and the sun shines bright, rays falling through the gaps in the canopy. The branches of the Magician twist and curl, leaves unfurling and leaves dropping and new leaves budding. His eyes are always careful and cautious, but they brighten with something lighter, less weighted, when Mirror makes a particular whimsical comment, or when Greywaren says something sarcastic and clever. Greywaren transitions between bird and man easily, walking and flying in alternations. Despite his cutting words he seems to take to Magician easily, choosing to rest amidst the intricate and elegant web of his branches more often then he alights on Mirror’s shoulder. When he is a man, the raven in him still shines through heavily. A puffy, blue-black ruff at the base of his neck, fingers dark and tough like talons. Mirror has trouble remembering if it was like that before, or if he is becoming more raven as time passes. But the past, as it has always been in this place, is elusive.

All bare patches of her skin are reflective now. Rippling, like her entire body is made of the surface of water. She can feel herself reflecting light, making things brighter. Reflecting the sharpness of Greywaren’s feathers and the jagged edges of his smile. Reflecting the lonely beauty of Magician’s branches and the intensity and thoughtfulness in his eyes. Reflecting a forest that is not changing, reflecting time that is not moving. An endless summer.

There is something eternal in the three of them as well. In the easy banter they fall into, in the comfortable silences that stretch between them. A feeling of always having been walking together, always being at each other’s side. A familiarity stretching into the future, and the past.

And still, something is missing. Still, something is lost.

“You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?”

Greywaren startles out of the Magician’s branches, dropping to his feet at his side. The wood twists tighter about Magician, his eyes narrowing as he turns. Mirror doesn’t jump, this time. Doesn’t even reach for her switchblade. Just frowns, staring into the formless shape, the shapeless form, with the disembodied voice that is still unsettlingly familiar.

She cannot shake the feeling that she’s been too quick to dismiss it. It feels the same as Magician, as Greywaren, and even if it’s offering help, if it’s offering aide, she is intensely certain of the fact that they can’t keep blowing it off.

“Forgotten what?” she challenges, hands on hips, “Just what are you following us around for? You must know we’re not going to accept help.”

 _What are you, who are you,_ she doesn’t ask, she doesn’t say.

The discoloured mass hovering uncertainly behind a tree solidifies a little. Enough for her to see pale fingers against a trunk, to see the impression of a face, without features, before it all slips away again.

“It’s not about helping, it’s about remembering,” the voice says, just a little clearer, “And what you’ve forgotten is _everything._ ”

Something ripples through the three of them. Greywaren tenses, Magician flinches back, and Mirror feels nausea roll through her stomach, and has to swallow back bile. The fear that’s rising within her, the dread, is suddenly near to overwhelming. Everything inside her is telling her that the voice is right. That what she’s lost isn’t a small thing, what she’s forgetting isn’t minor details; it’s _everything._

“They told you to guard your names, but you’ve forgotten them instead,” the voice continues, insistent, “You’ve forgotten your selves, you’ve forgotten each other, you’ve forgotten _me-_ thanks for that by the way, _rude._ But what’s worse is that you’ve forgotten why you’re here. _You’ve forgotten what you’re looking for._ ”

The words are not spoken maliciously, but they crash through them like a physical blow. _They can’t remember why they’re here._ And they can’t remember _themselves._ It’s true, and that makes it excruciatingly painful.

Mirror finds herself fighting tears, arms folded over her chest. _She can’t remember her true name._ It’s gone, along with her reasons for being here, with where she knows the boys from, with where she got her switchblade. Beside her, Greywaren swears under his breath, vicious and hurting. Magician’s shoulders hunch defensively, and he looks down for a few seconds, before looking up, eyes narrowed.

“You know what it is, though,” he demands, “You know us.” He straightens a little, bracing himself against something. It’s a familiar stance for him; waiting for the catch, waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the pain.

“Is there a price?” he asks, expression obstinate, “Something, something we have to do to get the memories back, or…”

The voice giggles a little then, and somehow, it’s not a cruel, contemptuous, or mocking sound. It’s light and familiar and genuine, and Mirror’s chest aches.

“Oh no,” it says, and its warm, in a weird way, “Like you said, I know you. If you remembered each other, you could do it yourselves. But since I’m the only one _remembered,”_ and the voice pauses here, oddly breathless, strangely reverent, “Since I’m the only one, I’ll give your names back to you. That should be enough, if you have your names.”

The shapeless mass is not so shapeless once again. Something man-like emerges from behind the tree. Pale hair, a rumpled form, and a face that is featureless at first, before eyes, a mouth, and a sad but earnest expression become visible.

Everything about him is familiar, down to the intangible nature of his form.

“We do know you,” Mirror says quietly, as he approaches, hovering over the ground. “All this time we’ve been avoiding you, but we know you like we know each other.”

He smiles awkwardly, a crooked thing, and stops in front of the three of them.

“I couldn’t really chase you, I just had to wait for you to acknowledge me,” he says, sounding apologetic. “But we’re together now, and I can do something, for once.”

He does not breathe in so much as expand, form solidifying a little more, feet forming and touching the ground, hands reaching towards them. His eyes are bright.

“Let me give you your names.”

He approaches Magician first, touching his face softly with his fingers and smiling at the way the tiny branches and little leaves twine about them. Then he moves forward and gently touches their lips together, still smiling.

“Adam,” he says, and Magician’s- Adam’s eyes widen. The branches retreat from his body rapidly, some falling to the ground, some retracting back into his skin, and the leaves fade away into the air.

And then he moves to Greywaren, stretching up on his toes to kiss him, chaste but lingering.

“Ronan,” he says, and then giggles a little as all the feathers explode off of Ronan’s body, tumbling to the forest floor to leave smooth, human skin behind.

Last, he stops in front of Mirror, and his expression is even gentler. He takes her hands in his and leans their foreheads together before pressing his mouth to hers, a deep and emotion-filled thing.

“Blue,” he says breathlessly as he pulls away, still holding her hands. She sucks in a breath as her skin tone evens to something normal, something human, the reflective nature gone. She tries not to tremble as her memories return. Of where she got the switchblade, of Adam and Ronan, of the _everything_ that’s been missing.

He smiles, watching the recognition spread across all of their faces. “And I’m-,”

“ _Noah,”_ Blue answers breathily, and his smile blooms into a delighted grin.

“You remember me!” he exclaims happily, “And you remember each other, right? And you remember why we’re here? What we’re looking for?”

“Who,” interrupts Ronan abruptly, face tight, something between anger and panic in his eyes, “ _Who_ we’re looking for.”

Beside him, Adam sucks in a breath, closing his eyes briefly.

“Gansey,” he whispers, hands clenching at his sides, “Gansey.”

Gansey.

Of course it’s Gansey.

Blue remembers now, remembers everything. Remembers the warnings they’d gotten from Cabeswater, that something unusual was infringing on their territory, that there was a new magic in the area. The new section of the forest that had appeared. One that gave Noah a bad feeling and that Chainsaw refused to go into. But one that they had cautiously decided to explore, because Glendower, of course.

Leaving the forest feeling unsettled, planning to ask Maura and Calla for advice before going back in.

Then realizing they couldn’t find Gansey.

Receiving an insistent warning from the trees of Cabeswater. _The Fae Court ensnares all who enter. Trust no one who offers help. Guard your names, for they have power and may be used against you._

Going back into the forest.

Getting separated from one another.

Getting lost.

Forgetting.

“We can’t get separated again,” Adam says, insistent, “I don’t care if we have to tie ourselves together, like in the cave. If we get separated, we’ll forget again, and who knows how long it will take us-,”

He pauses then, and a true expression of discomfort, of _fear_ flickers across his face.

“How-,” he swallows thickly, “How long?”

_How long have we been lost in here?_

The endless forest, where summer hasn’t faded, where the sun hasn’t moved in the sky, where every moment felt like an instant and an eternity, all at once.

Ronan’s expression twists into something ugly, like he’s tasted something truly bitter and disgusting. Blue tries not to panic, but turns instead to Noah, searching his face for an answer.

The ghost just shrugs, and begins to gesture about with his hands.

“ _Time,”_ he says airily, as if it doesn’t matter. “This is a circle, like Cabeswater. But it’s different too. It only works certain ways under certain conditions. If you break the rules it works one way, if you get trapped it works another. If you lose it goes this way, if you win it goes that way.”

He shrugs, looking uncharacteristically unconcerned. “We should just find Gansey. I think that’s how _we_ win. We won’t be able to find out what sort of time we got as a result until then, I think.”

“That is not reassuring in the fucking slightest,” Ronan snarls, all flashing talon and beak, war-ready as ever. “ _Especially_ since we still have no clue where the fuck Gansey is.”

Noah blinks, and wilts a little. “Oh,” he says, colour fading, like Ronan’s venom has melted away his presence. Blue tightens her grip on his hand. They can’t afford to lose him now.

“I think maybe this was a test,” he says, voice a little more muted, “I think since we found each other, and you all remembered, you’ll be able to find him now. I think you just have to go looking one more time.”

Blue can feel him fading, feel him become more of a whisper of a presence then a person, and she struggles against it, tries to push some of her power into him.

“Noah, _don’t,_ ” she stresses, trying not to sound panicked.

She gets the impression of a small smile, where his face was, before his image fades away entirely.

“We’ll all leave together,” his disembodied voice says, just a cold spot in the air, “Don’t worry.”

And then he’s gone.

Walking through the forest now is a tense, strained thing. They’re scared. They know now that this summer wood can take everything from them. Can rip them apart and leave them as distorted, fairytale renditions of themselves. They only one who seems impervious to it is gone, leaving them stranded.

They don’t have rope to tie themselves together, so they hold hands. Blue holding on to Adam holding onto Ronan. The forest is rougher now than it was before. Roots trip them, branches whip across their faces, tear at their clothes and skin. The trees and trunks are more twisted, more sinister, and when the breeze blows it’s biting, and ringing with a cruel, distant laughter.

A raven, a tree spirit, and a girl made of reflections and water hold hands and walk through a forest, searching for their lost king. It’s no wonder someone’s laughing- it does sound like a joke.

But even as the branches get harsher, as the trees attack them mercilessly, scratches all over their arms and faces, the ground begins to bloom with flora. Blue lily flowers, gathered around their feet. Mint plants, clustered together in a path.

A feeling thundering in Blue’s chest, something that tells her they’re going the right way.

And then the forest opens up into a clearing. The angry trees giving way to a grassy glade, illuminated by sunlight. And in the center, in the middle of a bed of bright yellow flowers, is…

“Gansey!” Blue shouts, dashing forward. Adam keeps tight hold of her hand, following close behind, and Ronan passes by them both. He reaches Gansey first, and immediately falls to his knees beside him. The tousled brown hair, surrounded by gold. The still, serene form. The peaceful expression on his face.

He’s sleeping.

Ronan reaches forward, his hand hesitant, uncertain. Then his expression hardens into something stubborn, and he grabs Gansey by the shoulder and shakes him violently.

“Wake the fuck up, asshole,” he snaps, “Bedtime is over. Get your damn ass out of these flowers, Sleeping Beauty.”

Gansey’s eyes blink open immediately, and he startles awake. Sits up and sees Ronan at his side, hand on his shoulder, and Blue on his other side, touching his arm, and Adam beside her, pressed against his leg. He stares at them all, blinking several more times, and evidently trying very hard to not look alarmed or confused.

“Oh, er,” he is obviously completely at a loss, and scrambling to reform some semblance of his regular Gansey countenance together. “What, exactly, has-,”

“I can’t believe you man,” interrupts Ronan, voice a hiss, “Parrish turned into a fucking tree for you, and you’ve just been here napping?”

Gansey’s mouth hangs open for a second before he shut it abruptly, staring silently at Ronan before slowly transferring his gaze to Adam, brow furrowed.

Adam stares back, expression unreadable. Then a slow, easy smile spreads across his face, and he shrugs.

“I got better,” he says casually.

That’s when Blue starts laughing. Gansey turns towards her, bewildered, but she just presses her face to his shoulder, smiling into the fabric, taking in the scent of Mint and the Pig and Cabeswater and Gansey.

A chill ripples through the air, and Noah appears behind Gansey, chin hooked over his shoulder and cheek resting on top of Blue’s hair.

“Everyone here, everyone remembered,” he says happily, “Now we can go home.”

They fill Gansey in as they walk, as they leave the glen and head back through the forest. Their hands are linked again, Noah in front holding onto Blue holding onto Gansey holding onto Ronan holding onto Adam. They tell him that he got faerie-napped, that they were separated looking for him, that they were misled and distorted by the forest.

Gansey looks incredulous when Blue tells him Ronan turned into an actual raven. He looks slightly less incredulous when Ronan repeats that Adam turned into a tree. Adam is then somewhat affronted, and asks Gansey why he’s less surprised by Adam turning into a tree than he is by Ronan turning into a bird, and just what he thinks Adam’s deal with Cabeswater entails anyways. Gansey looks uneasy. Blue is laughing again.

Noah is solid and smiling, watching as the gaps between the trees widen, and as the sun finally shifts from its position in the center of the sky.

“Just an hour,” he says happily, “See? They’re really only mean about time if you lose.”

It’s late spring again, and the sky darkens with rain clouds. The trees of Cabeswater greet them, expressing happiness at the Greywaren’s safe return, and Ronan ducks his head, smugly pleased. Adam smiles as he passes his fingers along the familiar bark, receiving a greeting of his own that only he can hear.

“Thank you for coming to find me,” Gansey says quietly, squeezing Blue’s hand, “I don’t think I could deal with the irony of being put into an eternal sleep, considering the nature of my current life’s quest.”

“We’ll come and get you every time,” she says fiercely, squeezing back, “But don’t make a habit of getting kidnapped by faeries, okay?”

Gansey laughs, the genuine one that Blue loves. Weighted and light all at once.

 _Every time,_ she repeats to herself. _We’ll come get you every time._

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I never thought I'd write for the raven cycle because I've always been so intimidated by the writing style and the depth of the characters. but I think I did okay here, haha. I'm really fond of this. hopefully I won't wake up and hate it in the morning. 
> 
> A good start to week 2 of my october writing challenge, I think?


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